Long Helmeted Poems
Long Helmeted Poems. Below are the most popular long Helmeted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Helmeted poems by poem length and keyword.
Gladiators of the numbered turf
Helmeted heads and padded limbs
22 soldiers on the field
No more, no less, at any time
All have stadiums they call their homes.
Swift of foot and quick of mind
A scoreboard keeps the points and time
Score points by one, two, three or six
By passes, runs, punts or kicks
Winning brings them glory.
Most mother's want their son's to play
When son's are born their father's start to say
Where and when their son will play
Parents eagerly await those cherished fall days
When Football is in season.
Upright goal posts at either end
Each team starts with their own direction
Weekly successes bring winning seasons
Sometimes the coaching can be the reason
The final scores tell the stories.
When January starts to draw near
The Championship games will soon be here
Fans are either elated or dismayed
To see if their teams get to play
and be this year's Gladiators in the Superbowl.
(January 23, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Yup, you red correctly,
this noggin must go
perhaps donated
to the Salvation Army, or Good Will
cuz, said atrophied cranial
horridly styled comfortably numb skull,
the source of immeasurable
beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk
nothing boot eve ville
hollow cavity mainly comprised
of wooly webbed weaving waste,
uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill
River effluvium and runoff rotten rill
hence, e'en a think tank
designated as Abby Normal
formerly atop a body named Phil
lip, or Wright winged Orville
one half brotherly duo,
the other sibling Wilbur,
whom both made a mill
yen legends getting airborne their lil
mechanical contraption
atop Kitty Hawk,
North Carolina with bi sic kill
mechanical aptitude,
when born aloft Kill Devil Hill
synonymous making fin hushed
blue prints emulating
flying fish, whose grill
like cartilage backbone
precursor to Evil
Knievel, who soared
on his motorcycle a devil
lush daring stuntman,
whose helmeted crown
full pursestrings muted cavil
ling critics with legitimate enterprise
earning gobs of legal tender,
whence aye aver
his mugshot ought to appear
on common denomination bill
and/or honoring throughout
the entire month of April.
He was withdrawing;
inside his eyes he cleaned the glass of his spectacles
they were worn thin now and only looked inward.
Nuclear weapons were threatening
the circuitry of a million neurons,
a conceptual forest of wooden perceptions
had been targeted by alien guineapigs,
helmeted ants were excavating his mind.
He muttered a question to himself:
What's a guy to do when the world
locks you out. even, attacks your long held reality?
What gives when the rope has no more 'give' in it?
He called his dead mother
(the cell phone was really that smart),
she replied from the outer-rings
of some milky nowhere.
"You should get out more,"
said the ethereal voice of the dearly departed,
"stop writing ambiguous and quixotic
letters to yourself."
"Mayb tomorrow," he replied uncertainly,
then he put the phone back
into its shock-proof bunker
at the deepest center
of his hive-humming brain.
THE GAME
Here's to the game
of men and their ball.
The helmeted warriors
of winter and fall.
They Explode off the line
with a thunderous crack.
Standing them up,
and pushing them back.
Stuffing the run,
and making the sack.
Sideline to Sideline
down field and back.
He knows when to cover
and when to attack.
Setting the standard,
The leader of the pack.
Shutting down rivals
in zone or in man.
Closing the gap
he can't be out ran.
Batting down passes,
picks it of, his first plan.
Taking the hand off
this thoroughbred steed.
Advancing position
with power and speed.
Running over or past them,
he'll get what you need.
They sprint down the field.
At incredible paces,
grabbing bombs from the air,
and of the tips of shoe laces.
Hard cuts and soft hands,
and winning the races.
Calling the signals.
Oposition's to read.
His arms is a cannon,
Work ethic his creed.
this rarest of athletes,
with a talent to lead.
Engaging attackers,
and forging of holes.
Protecting their leader.
The heart and the soul.
A team within a team,
with a singular goal.
In heat, snow, or rain,
with blood, sweat, and tears,
they play through the pain,
and attack without fear.
For their city, the people,
their brothers, their name,
most important of all,
for love of the game.
With prowess and grit
they give it their all,
for the ultimate honor,
enshrined in the hall.
Face of an Angel
I hear the distant rumblings
of artillery shells
I hear the singing sound
of stray bullets
I lift my head to look
around and see the toll
Bodies scattered like
leaves on a fall day.
Some with limbs torn from
them like a barren tree.
Some with their entrails exposed
like a lion’s prey.
I feel no pain, just a
sense of floating
Of being outside my
body.
Of looking at myself
with a red river flowing
from my leg.
I hear a distant cry, “medic”
I sense a shadow above me
and see a helmeted head
with a red cross painted on it.
I see the face of care and
compassion.
I see the face of an angel
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
A morning meadow - tall, red-yellow speckled,
now, humbled low by the wind.
Conifer sundials – mirrored shadows, slowly stretching, dancing, and then diminishing - along blurred edges of a lush, flowing sea.
Feathered, high flying eagles soar, circling small and wide, against a blue, white pillowed sky.
… a crow caws.
Nuzzled prairie dogs, with tethered tails, scamper for cover,
for danger spirals, just above.
Harvester ants marching in tiny zigzagged columns,
tunnel an ever deepened colony -
twisting around creviced rocks and roots.
Lightning fast gragonflies – thin tinsel winged airships,
darting, spinning, some kissing.
And white petite wild-flowers,
bobbing from honey bees, stand quivering.
Multi-colored butterflies flutter, undecided,
and brown-helmeted grasshoppers oddly peer -
like praying mantises, eager to leap.
Chirping sparrows, with cocked tails,
sand-bath in a warm, thirsty, summer sun.
And cat-tails, bursting, pierce through a sparsely wooded island.
A distant thunder-clap, and crawling, flat, anvil-headed clouds -
slide down majestic, snow-capped mountaintops,
marking the hour, like clockwork, this time of year.
Dusk comes, bathed in a warm, orange-amber hue,
waxing and waning with a melting sun.
A red fox stirs, finding at twilight’s gate, fresh promising scents, for her young.
And black masked raccoons steal away, through soft, cool moonlit grasses –
in a hushed, clown-like parade . . .
As I dwell in this sanctuary of place and spirit,
beneath an infinite, star-painted canopy.
I know with certainty - of mind, heart and soul,
that when God’s rainbow palette had hardened and dried -
All were - Forever One.
When asked what there names were
one responded quickly and spoke with a very heavy voice
saying his stage name was "Rink rasher"
and his partners was " Fresh Meat"
he shook my hand and began a conversation:
while his partner stood silent with a frown on his face.
I was try to bring him into the conversation asking questions often he'd just grunt and smile. He was a star helmeted Jammer and a successful one.
But when he finally opened up
I found him to be friendly, nice and smart.
He knew the journalist terms from his failed attempt at journalism
darning his college days,
he said he found fame and fortune on his debut night as a pro.
After a botched attempt at scoring he had skated 31 laps before the bout had concluded. And was the success of the night!
He told me a story about a guy named "Carny" James a fight guy rassler who was a flute plyer and parttime zylophone player. He gotta jig with this RubMusic crooner.(R$B Singer)
well they were going into the studio
to record this jam: he asked me to come and critic his groups sound, I did a jornelist was there and asked me
to do the interview for the group since I had taken jornelism in school I did the mag-session as they called it.
Well the cooner guy's backup singers didn't show up
and he needed someone to say oo-ooh softly intune.
I couldn't carry a note to a grocery store much less sing he got me in tune and I did it.
I never thought anything about it but one day royality check started coming in and I realized I was a rockstar and a Derby guy. Then I got into rassling and these guy's from hockey started getting us into trouble. Hockey guys and Roller Derby guy's don't get along!
The motorcycle rooooooooared~~~~~
Like a ravenous lion
Over fresh kill, prancing, charging, pacing
It
Moved through the hoard
Of migrating tourists, frightening the tamer
More passive vagabonds
Lumbering
Forward
On cruise-control
The nameless helmeted driver
Melded with his machine,
Head down. Spine arched,
arms extended on the throttles~~
Blue-jeaned thighs embrace the chasse
A lovers grip..
His forward charge parted the air
A back draft peeled the Harley black T-shirt from
His winter-white skin.
Spring had arrived late to New England.
Better late than never,
The road hog squealed
Sex merely a throbbing growl away
As our lance less Lothario leaves
His own testosterone trail
In an asphalt hail
On the road north.
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
Hey, helmeted heads and masked faces
Just doff your boring accessories
Come step into this secluded place
Which makes your mundane minds go crazy
On watery leaves, these little birds glide
Roistering the plain sailing water ride
There, the perky squirrels hoard fallen fruits
Wandering here and there forgetting their route
Butterflies here amaze us by their divine dance
And sometimes they also give us a great chance
Spins the enigmatic web, the signature spider
Writes on all the edges, the welcome letter
Look down and see the tiniest of tiny snails smile
And in pursuit of wonders, I don't need to go miles